CW: mention of car crash

Half the district’s web presence votes Anti-Turbine.

They make much of the local bats it’s said with

their graceful arc. Sober they go red-off-red

against the corn’s span. Or also

a crop known as sorghum.

I don’t know. A silver dollar hole verbs

through the goodwill in my head.

Grief for lack of a better word

acts as a kind of permission.

I don’t recall tracks as a train moos yonder.

When the Pontiac clipped me

fourteen near miles from the Ohio line

my veins fell inside out

with the promise to keep pain

above my face.

Each and every body experiences

a phase of mild cos-play.

Self-Help DJ From Hell is an untapped genre.

I pick up the card and it reads

“Not Your Daddy’s Realtor.”

Like Burt Reynolds naked on that bearskin.

A pinky of ash out his mouth.

The effort being the point.